Life in itself, is a Masquerade
by Jasper Blood
Summary: The Phantom has resigned himself to the fact that he cannot fall in love again. But then, Charlotte comes, begging for his services. At first their relationship is rough, but they soon fall for each other. A love story. Chapters rewritten! Please R and R!
1. Paper Faces on Parade

Paris, France- 1881

The Catacombs beneath the Opera House

"_Masquerade, paper faces on parade… masquerade, hide your face so that the world may never find you._"

The music box chimed the tune gaily, the bells ringing softly, delightfully. But there was no trace of delight in his voice. Simply… grief. Not anger. Not hatred. Not malice. Grief. The profound sadness that slowly withers away the soul, leaving nothing but ash.

"_Let the spectacle astound you_." His voice hung in the air, echoing about the dank caves, ringing like the haunting chime of a church bell.

"Oh Christine," the words were a mere whimper in the heavy silence. Slowly and with great effort, he arose from the throne, his velvet cape swirling at his feet. The white mask still lay on the arm of the chair. He glanced at it, a look of disgust in his eyes, but none the less, his fingers reached for it. They curled back suddenly, as if cringing, cowering away from the vile object's touch.

He clenched his hands into fists.

"Never." He muttered softly. "Never again." He stepped lightly toward the mirror, examining that which he'd always shied away from. His own… face. His long fingers trailed down his deformed flesh, probing it, stroking it with a fierceness, as if trying to rub it away.

"No longer can I…" his voice chocked, "cower behind this… this infernal thing."

The words were spat with the utmost loathing. But what could he do? His only love, his only dream; she had left him to run off with that damned imbecile. Left him all alone forever, with nothing but his music to console him. Her cruel words only left him more torn; his conscience flickered like a dying flame. Was he a scoundrel? A loathsome blackguard, seeking only the body of a beautiful woman? Or was he simply a hideous hermit, desiring only a companion?

He knew in his heart it was the latter. But the world would never know that.

"_The world showed no compassion to me_."

If only _someone _would show compassion. She didn't have to be beautiful. She didn't have to have a voice. She simply needed to… to understand.

To understand.

"_Masquerade. Every face a different shade; Masquerade, look around- there's another mask behind you_."

He chuckled softly. "My own damn life is a masquerade ball. Hiding behind a face of paper, hoping that the world will never find me."

And yet, all he truly wanted _was_ to be found.


	2. Don't Ever Fall In Love Again

**Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation- Aaaah! Dear God I'm in love with this freaking musical! Only the original Broadway cast though. My apologies to all the Gerard Butler fans, but he just didn't do it for me. Now, the haunting, soft yet sincere tenor voice of Michael Crawford- hallelujah god, every single freaking song he sang in this musical is stuck in my head. Like literally. I've been writing down the lyrics to Music of Night in big black bubble letters in my school assignment book. And outlining them in neon yellow highlighter. Ahem, anywho. For those of you have read the first chapter, I encourage you to keep reading and of course, to review. And to the newcomers, welcome. And also, review. **

**Regards,**

**J.B**

A Year Later

Above the Opera House, from Charlotte's perspective

"Charlotte!" Carlotta's shrill voice echoed across the stage. "Charlotte, my tea!"

The young woman scurried about the left wing, pushing a stray lock of bright red hair out of her eyes. She lifted the silver tea-tray expertly with one hand, the other still brandishing the water bucket and mop.

"_Oui_, _signora_! Coming, _signora_!" She resisted the urge to mumble a few profanities. Madame Giry's words echoed in the back of her mind.

"_Carlotta is a prima donna, Charlotte. She's arrogant, yes. And of course, she whines quite profusely. But you must ignore her, my dear child. The Opera House is your only chance at making a career for yourself, a life for yourself. If you say even one distasteful word to her, the managers will throw you out the back door like you're nothing but a scrap of paper._"

"I _am_ nothing but a scrap of paper." She muttered.

"_Charlotte_!" She cringed as her name was twisted into a piercing screech that would wake even the dead. She bit her lip hard, tasting blood in her mouth. She set the tray down on the oak table, hurriedly pouring out the dark liquid into a fragile china cup. She reached for the pitcher of cream but another of Carlotta's screeches halted her.

"No cream!"

"_Signora_?"

"Cream is bad for the voice; just tea and lemon."

"Ah… _oui_, _signora_, but I am afraid we have no lemons here..."

Carlotta lowered her face, her beady eyes staring her down like a hawk. "Then get one. Now! And don't dawdle about!"

Charlotte scowled at her, but obediently set off; Carlotta's venomous words still clear from behind her.

"Ha! Wretched creature; always taking her merry old time, as if _she_ was the star of the show!"

"Our most sincere apologies, _signora_," Andre and Firmin chimed in unison, there voice heightening in pitch, most likely due to their immense fear of the hawty soprano.

"That Daae girl had only a mere snip of a voice, but this… this filthy… _maid _for the Lord's sake! She has no training, no reputation, no _talent_!" She spat. "And yet she carries herself as if she were an empress! Why, the nerve of that _wretch_!"

"Yes, _signora_."

"Most definitely, _signora!_"

"We will speak with her as soon as she has fulfilled her errands!"

The nerve of _her_! It was all Charlotte could do to not march back there and slap that bitch senseless. She donned her shawl and her grocery basket.

"Rest assured, _signora_, I have not the slightest interest in interfering with the _arts_."

Out in the open air, she let loose her anger in a torrent of words.

"_Insolent wretch, that slave of fashion! Basking in her own damn glory! Ignorant fool, that gaudy soprano, fueling my deep hatred!"_

XXX

The Phantom's POV:

Her voice was extraordinary- unlike anything he'd ever heard. It was deeper than Christine's… perhaps meso-soprano. But still, it rang out in the cool evening air like bells. And the emotion in her voice was so brilliantly executed.

He stood silently, his form merely a black silhouette in the darkness of one of the many back allies leading down below the city. He watched intently as she stomped out of the opera house, a defiant swagger about her. From peach-colored skin to her bright red hair that trailed down her back in a loose braid, to her vibrant green eyes. She did not come from money, and most certainly wasn't trained in theater. And yet, she seemed so… so real. So unlike Carlotta or Piangi… or even Christine.

They acted. It was their career, their life. But… everything seemed so… pretend, nonsensical. There was something to this girl that made her so… so tangible, so... regular.

Her mundane looks were what intrigued him so. She didn't act, she didn't fake her talent. It was all real, natural. She didn't have to be trained to sing or taught to dictate.

She was stunning. She could be perfect for him… she could be all his… he could teach her, he could sing with her… he could…

"_No_!" The word was a hiss on his lips. No more. He couldn't do it again. He couldn't fall in love with again, only to end up with his heart torn out. He couldn't bare the sorrow twice. It would kill him, surely it would.

Silently, regretfully, the Phantom made his way back down to the lair, to write in his music in the plaintive silence of the catacombs. He glanced back once more, the young woman's voice still sweet and clear on the wind.

"…Perhaps... perhaps one day someone like her would notice me. Perhaps then I could… fall in love."

But he couldn't force it. He had to patient. He had to wait for her. No matter how long.


	3. The Mechanism in the Mirror

**Four reviews and I've only had it up for a couple of days? Oh yes, I'm lovin' this. Keep the flow comin' folks, I need all the inspiration and motivation and support and… whatever… I can get. And as I'm sure you're aware of by now, I have an unearthly obsession with the Phantom of the Opera, ever since my idiot music teacher made us read the script, listen to the songs, and watch the movie (Ugh! I despise, you Gerard!) It's really quite sad. But it has gotten my creativity going and I've had writer's block since last august. Yeah. That's even more sad. But, anyway. Keep reading! And REVIEWING!**

**Your obedient friend… and angel (Haha, see I quoted, I quoted!)**

**Jasper Blood**

**Oh and P.S- The Italicized words are sung. I figure you guys are phans or else you wouldn't be writing about this stuff so… you know the songs. And again, this story is not about Gerard Butler. It's about MICHAEL CRAWFORD BOLDED FOR EMPHASIS! HE'S THE ORIGINAL PHANTOM AND IF YOU HAVEN'T HEARD HIM LOOK HIM UP ON YOUTUBE. HE IS BRILLIANT!**

The chorus girls crowded around Madame Giry, who sat in one of the velvet-lined armchairs, her knitting abandoned in her lap.

"Tell us about Christine, Madame!"

"No, no, tell us about Carlotta croaking like a frog!"

"Oh blast it! Come now Madame, do tell us about the Phantom!"

"The Phantom?"

"_The Phantom of the Opera_!"

"_He's here_…"

"_The Phantom of the Opera_!"

"Hush, hush girls! I cannot possibly tell a story with all of you chattering!" Madame chided, picking up her needles once again.

"But won't you please tell us about the Phantom?" they begged, their eyes pleading.

Madame sighed warily. "As you wish, my dears. But I warn you, if the Phantom is to haunt this very opera house again, I promise you, it is your lives… voices, rather… he'll be after."

The girls giggled with childish delight.

"Oh it must have been grand!" one piped.

"Grand? To see the Phantom with his mask, singing tortured ballads- I'd fear for my life!" another said darkly.

"Girls, girls!"

Charlotte sat on the chaise at the back of the room, her legs folded up against her chest, her arms wrapped around them. Her long, red hair was untangled from its braid and draped across her back like a stole of silk. She rested her head between her knees, blocking out the other girls' squeals of delight.

"All they ever do is talk about that bloody Phantom. Whatever is so wonderful about him?" she mumbled.

Of course, she'd heard the stories. The tales of the disfigured composer dwelling beneath the opera house, spiriting the young Christine away to his lair where he sang to her lullabies of beautiful night music. But what was she to care? She wasn't a singer or an actor. She certainly wasn't a chorus girl; else she'd be crooning over the Phantom as well. And besides, something as marvelous as that would never happen to her. _Nothing _spectacular ever happened to her. She was always put to the back of everyone's minds, a blank face amid hundreds of others. She didn't truly exist.

Carlotta was right. She was nothing, nothing but a filthy street urchin, a beggar. She was fortunate to have gotten this job at all. But, oh, how she longed for more. How she longed to go somewhere in life, to travel, to be educated.

She laughed quietly. "Maybe I could be like Carlotta. Maybe I too could wear the finest fashions, sparkling pearls and lush furs. I could travel the world as an entertainer, I could be a cultured countess, dining with empresses and lords and ladies. I could be chatting trivially with the womenfolk about gardening and the outrageous price of tea and velvet. I could be in the drawing room with the General of the Army, talking politics and strategy. Men would melt into the palm of my hand when they looked into my eyes."

She rested her face in her hands, sighing tiredly. "But of course, none of that will ever come true. No, Charlotte Perrault will never be anyone, will never go anywhere. She'll rot in the dungeons of the _Opera Populaire, _forever doomed to a life of servitude to that spoiled _signora_."

Madame Giry noticed the young girl slouching rather dejectedly at the back of the room, her head cradled in her hands, mumbling faintly to herself.

"No more tales tonight my dears. Go to your rooms now, you need your rest."

The girls groaned but none the less, cleared out of the great room, filing off toward their rooms. The woman made her way toward her, her eyes filled with a deep concern.

"What are you thinking of, my child? What is it that troubles you?"

"Them." She muttered darkly. Madame Giry chuckled.

"Oh darling, you mustn't let them get to you. They _are _singers. It's in their blood to be dramatic.

A muffled 'humph' emanated from Charlotte's bunched up form.

"Well it's not in mine."

Madame sighed. "Oh Charlotte, it is in your blood."

"How is it in my blood? You heard the _prima donna_, I'm a maid! I wait on that Carlotta all day! I wait on all of them!" She cried. Madame stared at her in shock, her lips parted but no words were spoken.

Charlotte lowered her head.

"I… I'm sorry Madame. It's… it's just that…"

"Hush, my child. I know. Resentment is a truly awful feeling."

"But it's one I'm accustomed to." She whispered. She stood up from the chaise, stretching her legs. She turned to the woman, smiling slightly as she took in her sturdy frame, the laugh-lines that were etched into her eyelids, that kind, knowing smile that ensured that all would turn out well in the end.

"Madame, may I ask you something?"

"Of course, dear."

Charlotte turned the windows at the end of the room, staring out at the stars. "Does that phantom fellow really exist?"

"… I… I've met him once before, yes." She answered quietly, a faint hint of despair in her voice.

"What is he like?"

"I… I never talked to him. I've only ever seen him, once up close.

"Was he… was he as they say?"

"Yes." The word was spoken firmly; it was obvious that Madame had no interest in further discussing the Phantom's appearance. "But, he is truly brilliant. His talents exceed any of those in this opera house. In fact I consider it an insult to even compare them to him. It is such a despairing state of affairs. Here, we have a man with so much promise, so much determination, so much talent. And yet, he is loathed by the world, pushed to the back of consciences, never to reappear, never to be given a second thought, a second chance. Almost like you, Charlotte."

The young girl looked back at the woman, and when she looked closely, she could see the tears brimming in her eyes.

"Are you alright, my child?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you. I've just found that… that suddenly I'm quite envious of that… that Miss Daae. A man that would spirit me away, leaving my roses, singing to me, wanting my company. Such a man only ever appears for me, in my dreams." She said softly.

"Then keep dreaming, _ma chère_. And perhaps, someday it will come true."

"Perhaps."

Madame Giry arose from her seat swiftly.

"You should rest, Charlotte. Tomorrow is the night of the show. The managers will work you half to death, I'm sure." She said with a mischievous smile. Charlotte chuckled.

"But I have yet to tire, Madame."

The woman collected her knitting. "Well then, if you are restless, stay up. Perhaps if the thought provokes you, you'll explore a few mirrors."

Charlotte nodded and watched quietly as the woman departed, leaving her in the silence of the great room, the candlelight waning rapidly now. She sat down in one of the armchairs, sighing heavily.

"Yes, Madame, I'll go explore a mirror or two. Maybe I'll find the phantom, maybe he'll spirit me away to his lair and sing to me songs of the night and flatter me with blood-red roses." And she settled into the soft cushions, closing her eyes and drifting off.

But the sleep, the peace; they lasted only for a moment and as if a bolt of lightning had struck her, she shot up from the chair and raced out of the room, a truly mischievous glint in her eyes, a devilish smile gracing her lips.

Any night wanderers would have thought her mad. But she wasn't mad. She was curious, very curious, and on a quest. A quest to find a magic mirror, and to find the man who would change her life forever. At least, she hoped he would.

XXX

Madame Giry lay restlessly in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, the cracked plaster, thinking, pondering. Charlotte was marred by so many things; her accidental birth, her lack of formal education. When the young girl had come to the opera house only a year ago, she could hardly read, and her speech would make even the most profane sailor flinch. But, there were a precious few qualities she possessed that could be used in her favor. Of course, she was beautiful, far more beautiful than Christine or Carlotta or any of the chorus girls. It wasn't that she was glamorous or decked out with blushes and lip paints. She was a normal kind of beautiful.

And her voice would put the most acclaimed singer to shame. It was deeper than Carlotta's, though her range was rather astounding. And it was full and rich, not flimsy like Christine's. She didn't need an orchestra to make her song come to life. All she needed was a motivation.

"And, a teacher." She whispered. The Madame had witnessed the transformation of the lowly chorus girl, Christine Daae, to the glamorous, seasoned opera singer that crowds poured into the theater to view. But she hadn't done it alone. No, she had been taught by a brilliant artist, the Phantom. The unseen genius.

It had been a year since the mysterious events had occurred and the new Vicomtess de Chagny had left due to her pregnancy, leaving the opera house without a star. Only Carlotta remained, and she was quickly loosing audiences, though she denied it completely. It seemed that the loss of Piangi had not only made her crueler but slightly delirious, at times.

"Oh, _monsieur_ Phantom," she murmured quietly. "We need a star again, someone like Christine, someone better, perhaps." She closed her eyes. "Don't hide forever, _monsieur_. Find Charlotte. Teach her. Give her life anew."

XXX

A chilly draft blew harshly into the dark, abandoned dressing room, the furniture, costumes, and mirrors just as they were when Miss Daae had occupied the room. Charlotte knelt before the monstrous plate of glass, her reflection sneering at her, taunting her at her foolishness. How could she be so nonsensical as to be lurking around the Opera house, searching for hidden passageways like a silly child?

"Because I am a silly child." She whispered to herself, though she hoped the mocking image in the glass heard as well. Her fingers traced the gilt frame, feeling gingerly for some hidden mechanism. There had to be one. How else would the phantom have had such free access to the building with absolutely no one noticing him?

"Perhaps there is a symbol or something." She murmured, and held her lantern closer to the frame. The patters were all alike, the creeping, thorny vines of roses entwined with each other, their leaves and blossoms the largest details. But then… she noticed something different. As she neared the middle of the frame, she came to gaze upon a feminine figure, bending over one of the blossoms, weeping as if she were a banshee. Charlotte's eyes darted to the other side of the frame. There was no banshee there.

Curiously, yet somewhat hesitantly, she touched the symbol and gingerly pushed in. For a moment there was silence.

But then, a grating sound echoed from behind the glass and slowly, the mirror sunk into the wall, its weight producing a low grinding. The young girl reached out a hand, her fingers spread wide, and she pushed so delicately against the glass, that she was hardly touching it. But the mirror only needed that much, and it smoothly swung inward, a blast of cold air rushing out into the room. She felt as if the air was being sucked out of her, the color draining from her skin.

There before her lay a dark, narrow passageway. The passageway to the lair of the Phantom of the Opera.


	4. Sweet Intoxication

_**Bonjour**_**, my dear readers. As I've said before in past chapters, I do base the Phantom's character more on Michael Crawford's portrayal than Gerard's, but please do not take offense. You can imagine the phantom as whatever you imagine him as; that's your freedom as the reader. Well, I've supplied slightly more substance in this chapter, so Please, please review! Your reviews are what fuel my motivation! I doubt I'd have the strength to update again if I didn't! Please!**

**Regards,**

**Jasper Blood**

There in front of her, a narrow, winding passageway, leading deep below the opera house. The damp stone walls were washed over with the soft yellow light of cobweb-covered wall sconces that seemed to have existed long before the opera house itself. For a moment, she merely gaped at the sight before her, unable to comprehend what it was. Until a harsh rush of cold air blew in, like a blizzard's gusty winds.

Frantically she drew her night robe around her, the sudden chill making her muscles tense.

"_He's there. The Phantom of the Opera…"_ she sung slowly, softly. The words rolled off her tongue without her control, the haunting melody echoing ominously. "_Deep down below_."

Slowly, but without hesitation she moved fluidly through the doorway and glided down the steps, as if entranced….

XXX

_Candlelight shimmered on the water, giving it the appearance of silver. A beautiful mahogany organ glistened in the dim light, its handler's long, slender fingers gliding fluidly across the keys, producing the most awe-inspiring sound. Oh, the melody was so beautiful; it beckoned her closer, closer, closer. The cold damp stones beneath her sent chills up her spine and her arms and legs were dappled with goose bumps. And yet, the music was so warm, so welcoming._

_ How she longed to listen to it forever. And ever. And ever._

She gasped, her eyes flying open, the cold air hurtling into her lungs, practically knocking her backward. Her eyes darted about, searching frantically for someone, something, anything that was familiar. But there was nothing.

"Where… where am I?" she could barely hear her own voice, as it was nothing more than a nearly inaudible whisper. For a moment, there was nothing, merely the faint '_drip, drop_' of water striking the eroded stone steps. But then… there was the faintest hint of sound, something musical.

Someone was singing.

_"Say you'll share with me, one love, one lifetime. Say the word and I will follow you. Share each day with me, each night, each morning…"_

Cautiously, she made her way down the steep, winding steps, and soon the slippery texture of algae replaced that of the hard rock. She glanced down to see the cold water lapping at her knees, the hem of her dress already fully emerged. But she hardly registered the deep chill of the murky lake, the faint hint of hypothermia.

She waded until the water was nearly up to her chest, entranced by the beautiful music ahead of her. Her mind was awhirl with questions, curiosities, but she blocked them all out, focusing intently on what might lie ahead of her.

The music halted suddenly; she stopped short, the silence weighing heavily upon her. Had the musician seen her? As quietly as she could, she ducked into a narrow alcove in the stone, her heart racing in her chest.

XXX

He sat alone at his organ, sheets of unfinished music scattered about the floor, the table, the bed; it was as if a blizzard had overtaken the lair. Snow-white compositions decorated every surface like delicate snowflakes. His fingers rested upon the ebony and ivory keys, poised to play. But no sound emanated from the metal pipes. No singing accompanied the haunting melody. There was nothing.

He stared down at the instrument, tears welling in his eyes.

"_I gave you my music, made your song take wing_." His voice rang out soft and clear, echoing over the vast expanse of the lake.

"_And now, how you've repaid m_e." He whispered, his voice merely a choked whimper. "_Denied me and betrayed me_. _Oh, Christine_, why?"

He rested his head in his hands, his weeping almost inaudible. It had been a full year now, but that had changed nothing. Every morn, when he awoke, if he had slept, he still felt so _empty_. He had nothing to live for now, no reason to exist. At first, he had absorbed himself in his music, pushing away the torrent of emotion that so often now threatened to break through the strong barriers he had created. But now, his music suffered his sorrow, and his once beautiful, surreal compositions had turned twisted and ugly, turned to clashing cacophonies of meaningless _noise_.

"_Noise_." He whispered. "Music is not meant to be noise, it is not meant to simply be heard. It is mean to be rich, full of life; it is meant to be lived and breathed and dreamt of."

He stood up from the instrument, sighing heavily, as if the weight of the world had been placed upon his shoulders, and he was doomed to hold it forever, like Atlas. He paced about the rough stone floors of the lair, his hands folded behind his back, his head bent, as if deep in thought. But he wasn't thinking. He rarely thought now, as any of his possible thoughts were riddled with memories of _her_. Instead, his mind was blank, forever lying in wait for a moment of inspiration, something to spark the creativity and churn out a beautiful piece of art.

He glanced at the glassy water mere inches away from him, the soft waves rippling delicately. At one time, he'd pondered diving into the murky, black water, tying himself to the gate with his lasso, drowning himself in the dark abyss, never to be discovered. Though he considered it rather pathetic now, the thought of suicide had often entered his mind during the first few weeks. He'd never had anything to live for before, but Christine deepened his sorrows to the point that he felt as if he were truly dead, his body only a hollow shell doomed to the earth.

But he'd pushed the thoughts aside. "God put me on this earth for a reason," he convinced himself. "Though he took something so great away from me, surely he gave me something in return."

That had been his music. But his music was useless now. Nothing in the world could give him joy. Nothing but… Christine.

_Plop._

The faint sound of splashing jolted him from his solitude; someone was near, someone approached. His hand shot out instinctively, reaching for his mask. His fingertips traced the familiar features of the half-face; he longed to feel it once again against his marred flesh.

"No_," _he whispered, but unconsciously his fingers wrapped around the material, bringing it to him. It was as if his body was railing against him, mocking him, cackling at his fears.

"_Wear it,_" it crooned in his mind, "_put it on, be the Phantom again! Drown your sorrow with your hatred, torture them, kill them, kill the lot of those foolish actors!_"

"No." he imagined himself screaming the word; but in reality, the word was spoken in a shaky whimper, almost pleading.

Another splash sounded, this time closer. Was someone there, or was it merely a figment of his sleep-deprived imagination? His eyes darted about, taking stock in his surroundings. Another splash.

His fingers curled tighter around the mask.

Then there was silence. His heartbeat, which had sped up to a fierce pounding, dulled slowly. Gradually, his fingers unwound from the mask, and his muscles relaxed. He strode back to the organ, collecting a few sheets of music from one of the old armchairs, examining it half-heartedly.

He set it down on the music stand and sat before the instrument, cracking his knuckles, loosening up the tension in his fingers before playing. He sighed heavily.

"My last refuge is beginning to fail me," he said quietly. He placed his fingers on the smooth keys and closed his eyes….

XXX

She leaned up against the cold, clammy stone, her thin shift plastered to her back. The slimy algae made her skin crawl and shiver violently, despite the fact that she was covered in a film of sweat. Charlotte balanced precariously on a small bank of algae-covered rocks; her feet threatened to slip right off and drag her into the lake.

"Go back to your music already! I can't feel my toes." She whispered through gritted teeth. She watched from afar the black figure that paced about the large stone alcove, an object in one hand. It almost looked like a… a mask.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her. He was there, he was real. All the stories, the nonsensical, childish tales- they all truly existed! She watched in wonder… the way he addressed the music, the way he looked at it with such a deep kindness, as if the yellowed parchment were an old friend, a dearly adored relative. She had spent so many of her days watching Carlotta or Christine examine a piece of music for only a moment, inspecting only the articulations, the rhythm and notes. They didn't take the time to acquaint themselves with the piece; they didn't get to know it like a companion.

They didn't sing it like they loved it and wanted to execute every note precisely simply because they enjoyed it so much. No. They didn't sing because they took solace from the music. They sang because it was what they had been bred to do, all their lives. To them, it was their career. To this man, it was his life, his love, his one true friend.

And she'd never encountered anything so beautiful and pristine in her life.

And then, he began to sing again.

"_Floating, falling, sweet intoxication. Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation…"_

The rich tenor voice rippled across the cool, damp air like lengths of silk, soft and smooth. It was almost like a drug. She felt drawn to it; the entrancing sound beckoned to her, begged her to come forth and meet it.

She closed her eyes and smiled blissfully. Oh, it was so lovely….

Charlotte took a step forward; the music called out to her with such intensity now. Her heart pounded like an iron gavel, her emotions whirled within her in a torrent. For the first time in her life, she felt so… so liberated.

Another step. Such beautiful, mysterious voices….

Another step. It called to her, invited her into the warmth, the feelings of undeniable happiness embraced her.

Another step. And she slipped into the dark abyss.


End file.
